Our Skulls and Bones
by collegefangirl3791
Summary: When Sherlock jumped off the roof of Bart's, there was no back-up plan. No trick. He hit the ground and died, and now he haunts London and dreams of playing his violin one last time.


**AU where Sherlock really did die when he threw himself off the roof of Bart's and became a ghost, haunting London because why would Sherlock Holmes want to rest in peace?**

 **Title is from Bastille's song "Skulls", which inspired this song. Some of the lyrics are thrown in here. See if you can spot them. And by the way, this is not Johnlock.**

 **Being a Christian girl who very much does not believe in ghosts, I never thought I'd write a story about them, but I find the idea so intriguing that I did.**

* * *

It was intriguing being a ghost. Sherlock couldn't leave London, which was unfortunate, but he quite enjoyed being a mystery that would forever remain unsolved. He liked haunting 221B, but when John left as soon as he could and Mrs. Hudson refused to rent out the old flat, Sherlock began to expand his horizons. His presence was often felt at Scotland Yard, and if Sherlock whispered a few hints in Lestrade's ear on particularly difficult cases, who could blame him? Being a ghost was incredibly dull at times.

He liked giving people little hints that it was him. At John's flat, he would draw smiley faces in the fogged-up mirrors or slam the door whenever John was being particularly stupid. He liked leaving Molly notes that said, "You count", or he'd go to the morgue and give her a chill when she was working around a murdered man.

He didn't haunt Archie, but he did keep an eye on the little boy, helping him solve crimes or scaring away dangerous animals.

He knew how to enter people's dreams, but dreams were dangerous places. They weren't logical and he didn't have much control over what he did in them. The first few times he did, he had to relive his death, which didn't hurt any less in dreams than it had in real life.

One day, when he decided to stay at Baker Street and examine his old things, he was just picking up his violin and desperately wishing that he could play it without arousing suspicion when the door opened, creaking quietly, and John walked into the room. Sherlock almost dropped his violin in shock, but managed to set it down before John noticed a floating instrument in the middle of the room.

The army doctor looked so weary, which Sherlock was somewhat used to now, but here in 221B it was multiplied a hundredfold. John almost looked old. He sat down in his old armchair and looked around, his gray eyes retrospective and hollow.

Sherlock felt his ghostly chest ache for a just a short moment, enough to remind him what being alive felt like. John shouldn't look like this. He walked towards John and stood for a moment, undecided.

* * *

John didn't like to go back to 221B unless he absolutely had to, but here he was anyway. Remembering. His therapist had told him maybe he should, to help him cope, because so far he'd been doing nothing more than repressing all his grief and anger over Sherlock's death.

Mrs. Hudson hadn't moved anything. The skull sat on the kitchen table in the middle of a pile of lab equipment, Sherlock's dressing gown hung limply on the back of a chair, the books and papers were collecting dust on every surface, and even the violin lay out in the open... but wait. John got up and went over to examine the instrument. In the thin, gray layer of dust that had gathered on it, he saw faint fingerprints. His heart beat faster, and he looked around, nervous but unsure what to do. It made no sense for there to be fingerprints on the violin but no marks on anything else.

Turning around and leaving the instrument in place, John reached for his gun before realizing he'd left it at home. Who could possibly be snooping around in their old flat now, three months after Sherlock's death?

Behind him, a simple, clear sound emanated from the old violin.

John spun around, his hands coming up in fists. The violin was held in a pale, shaking hand, and the bow rested gently on its strings as if asking to play more music.

Sherlock's face appeared substantial enough, but it was covered in blood and too pale, like it had looked when he died. When he moved, his figure blurred for a moment like a picture taken when the camera is moving. "Hello, John," he said.

John took a step back, staring in shock. "Sherlock?"

"Yes. Well, not exactly. I'm afraid I'm still very dead. It's tremendously boring, being dead." Sherlock's voice shook a little. "I can't even play the violin without making this old place seem haunted, which I would prefer to avoid."

"You're a bloody ghost."

"Yes, so it seems. Have you been getting my messages?"

"I... I don't know. Yes, I guess."

"Splendid. Look now, John, what are you doing back here moping and looking so pitiable? It's utterly disgusting. And if that's the start of a mustache I see on your face, shave it off or I will haunt you in earnest."

"I'm hallucinating," John mumbled, sitting down heavily in his armchair. "God, that stupid therapist. I should have fired her. Oh, and now I'm talking to myself. Wonderful."

"You are not hallucinating, John Hamish Watson. If I've gone to all the trouble of making myself visible just for you to dismiss me as a figment of your imagination... Well. I don't have any good threats now that I'm dead except for 'I'll haunt you', which is actually quite effective but also rather repetitive."

John laughed, although it came out sounded like a sob. "Oh, for God's sake. There's no way you-"

Sherlock's cool hand wrapped around his, holding tight. It was a frightening sensation, like melting ice or wet snow. "There, that's real," Sherlock said calmly. "I can't touch you for long though; I've never done this before and I feel a bit like I'm dissolving. I don't think ghosts are supposed to directly interact with people."

"What's it like? Being a ghost?" John asked tentatively.

"Hmm... well." Sherlock picked up his violin again and stroked the rosy wood. The lines of blood on his face stood out from his pale skin, stark and sobering. "Not quite what one would expect. it's not so different from being alive, but emotions sort of... go away. The only time I feel anything is when I'm haunting you or Molly or, oddly enough, Mycroft. It's always quite cold, too, but luckily enough I died in my coat and scarf, so..." He shrugged. "Lestrade is getting a good bit cleverer, but he's still a damned idiot. You ought to check up on Molly for me. She's not doing too well, so I've been avoiding the morgue. Besides, when I'm there all kinds of idiots try to talk to me."

"Idiots?"

"Oh, you know, other dead people. Some of them stick around like me. Unfinished business or something. Some of them just disappear. But all of them want to talk to me. They're quite clingy and annoying."

"They're dead, Sherlock. Have some sympathy."

"I'm dead too. If I'm dead I can make fun of other dead people."

"Can you possess people and walk through walls and all that?" John asked.

"I'm not sure about the possessing people, although I think not. Being too close to living people is like standing next to a bonfire; long exposure is dangerous. If I tried to be a person, to be alive, I might just cease to exist. But yes, I can walk through walls."

John sighed and closed his eyes, his emotions raging. "But why now, Sherlock? Why show up now?" he asked, after a moment.

"I wasn't going to manifest for any of you. I knew that that would severely impede your ability to cope with my death. But since you seem to be languishing in misery despite the best efforts of your friends, and since I wanted to play at least one note on my violin again, here I am." Sherlock smiled brightly, but the dried blood on his face made his smile almost frightening.

"Is this the only time I'll see you like this?"

"Probably. I can't go around acting like I'm alive, John. However, if you bring my violin back to your house, I could stop by once in a while to play it. I can't do any composing here; it would terrify poor Mrs. Hudson. However, I'll only do this on the condition that you stop moping around all the time like a lonely dog."

John laughed. "I promise, Sherlock. Can I ask… um, does it hurt? Being dead?"

Sherlock's face twisted in a grimace. "I'd like to say no, John, but that wouldn't be true. It does hurt. All over, but especially my head. I'm alright though; I'm quite good at ignoring the pain by now."

John sighed and shook his head, standing up. "Alright. I should go home. And by the way, I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"Sorry that you had to die. For me, for us."

"Well I'm not sorry," Sherlock snorted. "I don't regret it. You're all worth it, and of course so is Molly but Moriarty had no idea I cared about her."

"Sherlock, you said that you had unfinished business, and that's why you're a ghost. Can I help, somehow? So you can move on and, I don't know, rest in peace or whatever?"

"I don't want to rest in peace John. I'd rather be the ghost that annoys you. As for the unfinished business, there are hundreds of unsolved mysteries to figure out, and I've got to look after Molly and Mrs. Hudson and help Lestrade with his cases because he's a bloody idiot. You see, John, I'm a ghost, but I seem to have turned out as a guardian angel, too. That would be funny, you know, because I told Moriarty before I fell that I wasn't an angel."

John picked up the violin, found its case, and packed it away. "I suppose I should leave now."

"Yes, you should." Sherlock's voice was fondly amused.

Before the dead detective could disappear, though, John lunged for him and hugged him tightly. Sherlock laughed and patted John's back awkwardly with his chilly right hand. "I miss you, too."

John let go, remembering that ghosts and humans couldn't coexist very well, and left the flat, holding tightly to Sherlock's Stradivarius violin. He didn't want to see his friend disappear as if he'd never been there.

* * *

Sherlock lifted the violin gently, lovingly. He lightly plucked each string, frowning when they twanged flat or sharp. Even dead, he knew exactly how each note should sound and went about tuning the violin. He finished very quickly, and with a swift, smooth motion lifted the violin to his shoulder and rocked back onto one foot, adopting the familiar posture of an accomplished violinist.

Deep breath in.

Lift the bow.

Exhale.

Eyes closed.

He drew the bow across the strings, feeling the vibrations of the instrument throughout his whole body. Thrilling at the beautiful, familiar sound, he began composing, letting the music do what it wanted. His fingers found their old places on the strings and he laughed a little as he began swaying to the tune.

He barely even noticed John arriving at the doorway, staring desperately into the guest bedroom as if he could see Sherlock if he only looked hard enough. Sherlock, letting out another laugh, became visible for just a moment, winking at his old friend and playing a series of light, cheerful notes.

The music made him feel alive again, if only for a little while.


End file.
